Paradiso Andiamo
by potterology
Summary: All the lonely souls wind up in Paradiso. - A meeting of the minds. Jalice if you squint.


All the lonely people wind up in Paradiso. At least, John thought, it seemed that way. Barflies nursing their third whiskey; women drowning their sorrows with girlfriends; bartenders trying to avoid the knowing gaze of a police officer when passing three girls who couldn't be older than fifteen; and finally, there at the end, looking pristine and entirely out of place, sits the Devil herself. The brilliant red hair John had come to associate with her has been bleached to a dull, dirty blonde. She is thinner. Running for so long - two years, he reminds himself - has taken a toll.

He sits.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he asks lowly. A terrible shark-toothed grin splits her face and she pushes the unfinished martini as far away as her arm will allow. John spots a tattoo on the back of her hand, right on the muscle underneath her first knuckle and next to her thumb: a dead dog with a smoking gun between its teeth.

"You most certainly can." She motions to the bartender, orders a dirty martini and a double whiskey for him. He scratches the bridge of his nose, smiles mirthlessly.

Tapping a finger lightly against her hand, he says, "Nice ink." It's a genuine compliment. Whomever she trusted to mark her so permanently was a wise choice.

"Yes. Dreadfully awkward to explain. His hands shook. I was worried." She sips her martini. Hot, Spanish air blows through as two younger men stumble out into the night, hooting merrily, and the breeze ruffles her thin dress. All together - the heat, the dress, the hair - softens her, makes her seem more approachable and gentle than John knows her to be.

"Yeah, I'll bet. Look, Alice, not that I'm not loving the catch-up, but I've gotta know - why am I here? You can't do this, you know, just send me airplane tickets in the post and expect me to just up and go. I've a got a life, Alice. I've got people that count on me, I've got a job-"

"No, you don't." Her sudden interruption, the assuredness with which she says, makes him stop. All in all, it takes him about two seconds to click to the implication.

"Have you been spying on me, Alice?" He watches her out the corner of his eye - and sure enough, her predatory smile gives her away.

"Guilty." She winks, John laughs and shakes his head. He should have known. Had she been anyone else, he would have been furious and felt violated. But not with her, because he'd half done the same. He'd tracked her movements from Albania until the trail went cold in Moscow. "And if it makes any difference," she turns to him, almost genuine sympathy in her eyes, "I think they made a colossal mistake in letting you go. And I'm not just talking about the police. Gillian is an idiot if she thinks she can find a better man than you."

"Yeah, well…" Her praise makes him uncomfortable. Mostly because it sounds so horrifically honest, like she really means what she's saying. Sipping his whiskey, he glances at her, tries to suss out her motive for having him here.

"Zoe, Gillian… Where do you find these women? Honestly!" she huffs out an incredulous breath. If John didn't know any better, he'd think she might be nervous. She mumbles something else - mumbles? When did this women mumble? Closely, he watches her, watches the way she twists a damp napkin, the way she gestures and never quite makes eye contact. Confusion clouds his judgement, so he allows himself to believe that maybe - just maybe - she wants him here for no real specific purpose other than just to be here.

So he blindsides her with the only way he knows how: outright asking her.

"Are you lonely, Alice?"

It does the trick. She looks up, meeting his eyes for the first time since he entered the bar. She blinks.

"Yes." She breathes, finishes her martini. "I'll be honest, John. I missed you. It's been two years, after all, there is only so long a girl can run before it starts to weigh her down. Frankly, at this rate, I doubt I'll make it to the Q's." She orders another drink, something slightly stronger.

"Why me?"

"As if you don't know."

"I'm not in love with you, Alice."

"I didn't say you were. Although, the implication is that _you_ thought you were." She's got him there. He shrugs.

"Maybe I was. I don't know. But I know I'm not now."

"And I am not in love with you."

"Then we're back to where we started. Why me?"

She huffs. Thinks. "Very well." She twists in her seat, meets his gaze. "My entire life, I have been in constant contact with people who think they know me, or who set out to try. Pitiful attempts to twist me, push me, and bend me into shapes and moulds that I do not fit end in disaster. Everyone and their mother thinks they know me, but in reality, there is only one person who really knows me - or at least, knows me enough." Shyly, she smiles again and it's not predatory, but soft the way it had been the first time he'd seen it. "You."

And he has to look away. Because, dammit, he's being sucked into her orbit again and this was the last thing he wanted. However, it's out there. It's in the air. He can touch it, taste it on the tip of his tongue.

In a mammoth effort he summons his voice, "I'm leaving, Alice. I'm sorry that you're feeling low, but you can't just drag me about like this." He gets up to leave, but her voice stops him.

"Paradiso - Dante's Paradise. Allegorically, the poem represents the soul's ascent to heaven. Do you know why I chose here?" she smiles ominously again, and he turns on his heel to face her. He shrugs. "Safe harbour. Call it a soft spot for the poetics."

"Sorry, jet lag - what _are_ you talking about?"

"Paradiso, John. Paradiso." She drains her drink, tosses down a few too many Euros and breezes past him, leaving him to numbly shuffle out behind her.

"Paradiso. Safe harbour. Oh. I get it." And he does. Him. He's the safe harbour.

"I'm tired of travelling, darling."

"You need a piggy back. Someone trustworthy."

"And who better than an ex-copper?"

"Very clever, Alice."

"I never deign to be anything less. Come on, dear, I need a new wardrobe."

"Paradiso, eh?"

"Effettivamente."

Oddly enough, they never made it London.


End file.
